


Plot Twists (I Don't Like Them)

by Grigiocuore



Category: Psych
Genre: Developing Relationship, Editor!Shawn, Hurt/Comfort, Lassie gets a new hobby, Lassie/Jules Friendship because it's too important, M/M, Slice of Life, Writer!Lassie, alternative universe, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he was on sick-leave. And with sick-leave came the post-traumatic programs too. They told him to go to a therapist, group meetings, call a family member, try carpentry - the weirdest suggestion yet had been to write stories. Just like this, buy a book, sit down at his table and write stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plot Twists (I Don't Like Them)

**Plot Twists (I don’t Like Them)**

The accident happened in March and Lassiter scarcely remembered half of it. There had been a roundup to some big gang lair and his leg deflagrating in pain and fire and Juliet holding tight on his hand and telling him not to die, that was sure. What actually occurred between that and the moment he woke up in hospital with a tube down his throat and his knee smashed in five parts was a grey blur. Apparently one of the thugs shot him across his leg during the shooting, a random shot struck a bunch of gasoline jugs and the whole warehouse had caught fire before any of theirs could realize what was happening. The bullet hit the kneecap itself - crashing through it and shearing off every mayor blood vessel within range. He had lost enough blood in the first two minutes to die from blood loss shock. They pulled him out and O’Hara from the warehouse when the fire was less than five feet from them. 

They all learnt in Academy femur wounds are the true lurching demon of their careers. It turned out the knee injuries were a close second. 

They told him he had been rather fortunate, given the circumstances. The knee had broken in a pretty neat way - and Lassiter had been the only patient in the hospital history not to see any misplaced humor in that sentence -, so reconstruct it had been easy enough. With proper therapy, he’d walk again in three months. He would get back to normality in five, although he’d forever have an aching knee in cloudy weather like Vietnam veterans. 

“Five, five months?” He had stuttered out. “But I can’t stay home so-” 

“You can and you’ll do it, Detective Lassiter” Vick had said. “Or so helps me.” 

So he was on sick-leave. And with sick-leave came the post-traumatic programs too. They told him to go to a therapist, group meetings, call a family member, try carpentry - the weirdest suggestion yet had been to write stories. Just like this, buy a book, sit down at his table and write stories. 

It sounded foolish. Lassiter told Juliet so. He told her so again as she plopped in his hands a large black notebook and a ink pen and put on her no-nonsense face. 

“Carlton, I know it sounds dumb.” She said. “But I have nightmares three times a week about that damn floor in flames and I wasn’t the one bleeding out on it. So, please. Just try.” 

The choices were either that or a therapy program stretching through years and years to come. Lassiter chose the stories. 

“Don’t put too much thought in it. Have fun, Detective Lassiter. Let it flow. Don’t take it seriously.” 

Too bad Carlton Lassiter had no idea how not to take things seriously. 

* 

When the doorbell rang it was seven past five p.m. Carlton Lassiter knew the exact time because he was sitting on the Granda’s chair in the kitchen, the one O’Hara forced him to bring close to the French window to “get fresh air while resting and sulking”, and right in front of the chair was the kitchen timer display blinking minutes at the slowest pace imaginable. He waited for it to die and fade, then the ring came again. And again. At the fourth ring, executed in a fashion that vaguely reminded him of _She Loves Me_ , Carlton realized whoever it is they were not going to give up. He put down his book - Lonesome Dove, passed through three stake-outs and an overturned coffee mug and still there -, rested it on the counter and went through the complex process of getting up. It took a lot of hands pushing and support points and leg rotating and tendrils of pain shooting up to his teeth, but in the end Carlton managed to lean against the spice drawer. Good. Good. Nice job Lassiter. Now it was just forty-two feet between him and the door and he’d be done. 

__

_Oh, Hell._

Carlton took a deep breath and limped through the kitchen. His left knee was still a pink cluster of scar tissue and metal braces, but it did its job. It carried him all the way through the Hall and in front of the front door. 

Carlton cracked it open, very slowly. On the patio was standing a tanned man dressed in a sleek pinstriped jacket and a ridiculous mane of spiky hair. 

“I’m not going to buy anything.” Carlton said. “And I’m a police officer. I legally own approximately thirteen guns and won the Shooting Range Prize for two years in a row, so I’d strongly suggest you not try anything.” 

“Well, good for me I’m not here to sell you anything.” Spiky Guy tweeted. “Actually, it’s more me wanting to buy something from you.” 

He quietly chuckled at his joke and leant in, thrusting out his hand. “Shawn Spencer. Gus’s friend.” 

Carlton didn’t move. Spiky Guy’s hand was still outstretched and got ignored and was - rather daintily, he must say - repurposed to smooth down a wrinkle on the jacket. He saw him blink behind the Ray-Bans. 

“Gus - Burton, Burton Guster. Dark skin, adorable round head. The lovely blonde cop’s sweetheart.” Silence. He narrowed his eyes. 

“Did the accident involve hitting your head by any chance?” 

Carlton didn’t answer. Spiky Guy shuffled on the spot, rocking on the heels of his spotless white trainers, waved a hand dismissively and came to some conclusion all on his own. 

“Uh - you know what? Never mind. Soooo, Mister, I’m here to talk business. I’ve been presented with your works, and I think we could make something out of them. Sure, they need a lot of polishing, but don’t worry. With short stories authors it’s pretty normal.” 

“I, fear I don’t follow.” 

“The works you sent me through Gus. The Siberian train, and the biography of the Civil War colonel, and the blind ranger with the Texas horse or something like that.” Spiky Guy waited for some reply again, got none. He scratched his chin with one hand. Scratchy, not-shaven chin, of course. “You’re one hundred percent _sure_ you absolutely didn’t hit your head?” 

“I’ve never-” Lassiter stopped mid-sentence. He gave himself a moment to think, and his eyes went wide. Short stories. The short stories in his black book. The short stories in his black book he left with O’Hara while he was taking a shower, unguarded. 

He clenched his teeth to the point of pain. _Juliet._ _Traitor. You can dream of getting your hands on my Patriot Special Edition Box, partner._

“Still there, buddy?” Spiky Guy was still talking - expecting to have a conversation, apparently -, leaning forward, smiling over his Ray-Bans. Trying to inch through the door. 

_Hell no._ “It’s Lassiter.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I’m no ‘buddy’. It’s Lassiter. Detective Carlton Lassiter.” 

“Carlton Lassiter?” Spiky Guy grimaced. “Could work with Historical novels, but how unfortunate of you pal. Oh, and Romance. Maybe it could work for Romance too – the granny-style angsty rodeo kind of things.” 

“I’ll tell you one more time. I’m. Not. Interested. In anything. You’re. Offering. And now get off of my property.” 

“I think I won’t.” Spiky Guy replied smoothly. “Sounds surprising, but I’m actually a pretty stubborn guy, you know - especially when I get interested in something. Especially when I get curious.” He grinned, and Carlton fought the urge to tense against the door. There was something in the way he said the word “curious” that made it sound all wrong – dirty, like it wasn’t the one he was looking for and the real one was not to be heard in a sunny Californian afternoon. “I can wait right here for ages. Well, maybe not ages, but my schedule is open till 7 p.m. You can let me in for five minutes and be done with it or have a gaudy, dashing-looking man singing Abba on your porch for the whole afternoon. And I know the whole repertory. Your choice, Lassie.” 

Spiky Guy had inched closer to the threshold. Carlton could slam the door on his nose and listening to three hours of badly-performed pop hits would still be worth it - counting on the fact the idiot probably didn’t really mean to carry on with his plan. Moreover, Spiky Guy was well-built but cocky and hurling him off his porch without much harm on both parts would be a practicable task. Still, Carlton didn’t move. He had woken up at six drenched in sweat and with Juliet’s sobs crashing in his head. The PD didn’t call him back. He was bored and angry and the knee was pulsing hard enough he felt his temples pound like hammers and actually, actually today Carlton Lassiter didn’t feel like fighting. 

He sighed. Stepping back and pulling the door open. _Lassiter, you idiot._

“Come in. Five minutes.” 

Spiky Guy grinned and jogged past him. Carlton closed the door, fell behind him. There were four guns within reach, in the hall, in the corridor and in the kitchen as well. He regretted to walk so slowly and be in jeans and softball team jumpsuit instead of a jacket. He regretted his decision almost instantly. He regretted it even more watching Spiky Guy sitting down at his table, legs curling tight around the chair, smirking and bouncing and chuckling to some inner joke the world couldn’t see. He got nothing to do with his kitchen. He was too colorful and too frowzy, standing out against grey tiles and stainless steel like a lipstick mark on a shirt. Carlton smoothed down the jumpsuit – a thread of self-consciousness creeping silently up his spine- and approached his counter. 

“Coffee or tea?” 

He got promptly ignored. Spiky Guy looked much more interested in studying the walls, the counters, taking everything in with keen calculating eyes. “Uh. So, that’s your lair. Nice shelves Lassie. Oregano, sugar, flour - I’m impressed. I didn’t expect real cooking stuff actually. I thought cops lived off sugar donuts and whiskey shots or something.” 

“Lassiter.” 

“Uh?” 

Carlton cast a look over his shoulder. 

“It’s Lassiter. Las-si-ter. It’s not that hard.” 

“Ah, yes. But you do not look like a Lassiter.” Spiky Guy swung on the chair’s back legs, head tilted on the side. “Not all the time at least. I bet at work you really are a Lassiter -all uptight with your crisp suit and shoulder holster thing and blue gaze burning wrong-doers down to pitiful ashes. But here, now…not quite. Right now you’re something - roundish. _Softer._ Lassie. Yes, Lassie sounds perfect.” 

Carlton was surveying his counter, wondering whether to offer coffee or tea, his Irish mom’s teachings kicking in without his authorization. He stopped to listen to Spiky Guy’s words. Crap, small talk, there was no need to say anything. Carlton spoke in a rush. 

“I’ve not always looked like this.” 

“I never said it’s a bad thing.” He said, softly. Carlton’s hand slipped and nearly sent the sugar jar crashing on the floor. 

_Coffee. He didn’t deserve to choose._

Carlton took the coffee pot off its counter spot and pulled down two mugs from the hinges above the sink, then he filled them and slammed one on the table in front of Spiky Guy. He turned to get them creams. 

“You read my stories, then?” 

“Yep. Wanna know what I thought of them?” 

“No.” 

“They’re terrible.” 

“Pardon _me_?” 

Carlton had swirled around and talked before he could even realize what he was doing. He cursed inwardly. He always slipped in formal English when getting upset - Victoria had hated it. _For God’s sake, Carlton, you can’t even_ argue _like a normal person can you?_

“They’re terrible.” Spiky Guy said. “They’re stiff, slow-paced, prude and naive. But-” He added, and saying it he slashed a finger around like an orchestra leader, taking a sip from his coffee, delaying his answer enough to see Carlton’s jaw clench and grow stiff. “-but there’s a thing that got me in your stories. The words. You believe in every word you wrote, Lassie. Every sentence you put there, every paragraph, every _sound_ has been carved out, slowly, carefully - painstakingly so. You may persuade human beings you have no heart, Carlton Lassiter, but I’ve found it in every single syllable of those stories.” 

Carlton felt his ears grow hotter for the whole speech - then he tried to hide it and failed. Spiky Guy’s eyes followed his futile attempts with shameless glee. 

“I don’t write for a living, mister. It’s fun. Therapy.” 

“Bullshit. It’s neither fun nor therapy and we both know it. But quit the submarines and Civil War colonels Lassie. Write. Write the Story.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“The _Story_.” He said again. “The one you can’t stop thinking about. The one that follows you in bed, and when you wake up, and when you do groceries, the one that will grow with you, that is already growing with you. The one that feels like home-made pies and scraped knees and first-time sex at the same time. The one that came to you without you asking for it and that will feel like home more than anything in your whole life. I mean - the one that’s all that kind of writery bullshit, you know it.” 

Spiky Guy rose from the table and was suddenly in front of him, radiating heat and colors, holding something for him to pick. It was a business card, printed in bright citrus green, gaudy enough to actively hurt his eyeballs. The card sported a name, in bold yellow caps - Shawn Spencer, editor and literary agent. 

_Spencer._

“Call me when you pin that Story down, Lassie.” 

Carlton took the business cardeven if every fiber of his body was shouting him not too – absurdly, as it was just a card, nothing like a warehouse blazing in fire. He stared at Spencer with hard eyes. “I won’t, Spencer.” 

“Not a problem.” Spencer replied. “Remember, Lassie? I can wait, if I get interested. If I’m curious enough.” 

Then he turned, waltzed through the hall, and the door clicked closed behind him. 

* 

“Hello, Juliet.” 

“Uh-oh. You called me Juliet. What happened? Are you oka-” 

“ _Treachery._ ” Carlton hissed in his phone with all the pathos he could muster. “Treachery happened. I can’t believe you did that to me, Juliet. I can’t believe you invited a stranger to _my_ house, to talk about _my_ work-” 

“Oh Gosh - Shawn came to your place? _In person?_ ” Juliet gave a wailing sound in the receiver. There was a muffled stream of curses, the sharp, highly-specific kind his partner favored in time of stress, and the _swoosh_ of a pillow cutting through air.  
“Crap, I told Gus he wasn’t a good pick - what’s the point in working for a great publishing if you just send around your wacky best friend? _Aah_. Oh Carlton, I’m so – I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this-” 

“I’ll say that is _no way_ the point O’Hara.” Carlton slammed a drawer closed on his way to the living room. Over the line came the thump of the pillow bouncing off something solid and Gus whining, but he wasn’t satisfied yet. “I don’t care about your boyfriend’s doubtful acquaintances. You plotted behind my back. You took that stupid bunch of crap I wrote-” 

“It’s not a stupid bunch of crap, Carlton.” 

“Hear me straight, O’Ha-” 

“No, _you_ hear me straight now.” O’Hara’s voice shifted; dropped of several octaves, leaning closer in the receiver, taking absolutely no shit. “Carlton Lassiter, your stories are gorgeous. I’ve nearly cried over the Colonel one. I think you can have something beautiful here, and it was my _duty_ to let the world take a peek at it.” 

She meant it. Every word. Carlton gave the quietest sigh, racked a hand through his hair. He bit his cheek, hard. “You were supposed to be my partner.” He finally said in the phone – whimpered, though he would not admit it under torture. “The one watching my back, my Right hand, my comrade in arms. The hoplite holding their shield out for _me_.” 

“And I’m still all these things.” O’Hara replied. “But I know you. You’re stubborn as Hell, yet you’re not when it comes to yourself and whatever may possibly make you happy. So sometimes my duty is to grab your sorry ass and drag it out in daylight, so everyone can look and see the good and exceptional man you are. Right Hand’s word.” 

Carlton didn’t find anything to object. He felt like he should still be angry, still be rightfully outraged – but the hard truth was he didn’t want to ring off. He heard her shuffle, her voice soften up. 

“I’m sorry for how this turned out, though. I apologize.” 

“Mh.” 

Shuffle of feet. A pause. “We’re still good for tonight? I bring caramel popcorn.” 

Damn Juliet and her caramel popcorn. Standing in her kitchen, mixing sugar and corn in the big blue bowl he bought her last Christmas, waiting for him to answer, letting him take his time. Damn. 

“Mh. Yeah. But you won’t put your hands on the Patriot Special Box, O’Hara.” 

* 

Outside his door Spencer was clad in a mismatched rolled-sleeve green jacket and leaning against the porch balustrade with his legs crossed at ankle. 

“You didn’t call.” 

“I said I wouldn’t. Why you here?” 

“I - didn’t have your number actually. I suppose that’s my fault. Thought about it as soon as I got out but couldn’t come back. It was too good a exit to spoil it.” 

“I see.” Carlton said. “Well, bye.” 

“No.” Spencer’s hand shot between door and threshold a second before Lassiter slammed it closed. He thought he could still close it, decided it would entail too much trouble. Very wisely, Spencer decided to retire his hand nevertheless. 

“Before you kick me out, I demand a cup of your horrible coffee. Seriously dude, that stuff is bad enough without stuffing it with tons of cream – felt like I drank a dead rat for the whole day. But somehow, it got a twisted sort of charm.” He flashed him a row of blindingly white teeth. Peered over the Ray-ban with those indefinable cat eyes. 

“C’mon Lassie. Pretty please.” 

Lassiter clasped his lips, tight, increasingly tight, till they started to hurt and Spencer was still there smiling on his patio. He was not going to take his leave. Lassiter tilted his head. Blinked. 

“Extra-cream of course.” 

It was good to see the idiot’s grin waver. “Of course.” 

* 

He didn’t put extra cream in Spencer’s coffee. He was much too busy in stealing glances at the man sitting at his table, again, fingers drumming on the tablecloth and those long legs folded awkwardly around the chair, again. Carlton wasn’t great at stealing glances. Eyes too big, inevitable - on one of their first stake-out talks vaguely resembling friendship Juliet told him he reminded her of a human periscope, peering from the deep, turning its whole body around to focus a single spot. It was one of the nicest thing anyone had ever said him. 

“So.” Spencer stopped the drumming and neatly entwined his fingers in front of him. “What about the Story?” 

“I haven’t thought about your stupid Story, Spencer.” 

“Not true. You have it Lassie. I see it in those big blue eyes of yours. I’m a bit of a psychic in this kind of things.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Probably - but I’m serious here. I wasn’t lying when I said you made me curious. I just want a plot. A half-plot. A syllable and you won’t ever ever have to deal with me again.” 

“What kind of editor are you?” 

“A very cool and very dumb one.” Spencer replied. “Now c’mon. Spill the beans Lassie. And sit down, you’re so tall I’m getting a stiff neck trying to look you in the face.” 

Carlton’s head jolted up from the cream drawer. He had been up all day, and now felt a spurt of nausea slushing at the pit of his stomach. The knee was burning and crumbling under him. He suspected, without any reason to, that Spencer knew. It would be so out of character for him. So weirdly considerate. Carlton filed the thought for later examination, pushed back the closest chair and slipped gracefully on it. 

“It’s not even a plot, actually.” 

“Ah, so I was right - there _is_ something. C’mon Lassie. Tell me. Is it historical fiction? Thriller? A romance? You really should try romance, “Carlton Lassiter” sounds Republican enough to appeal suburb moms.” 

Carlton didn’t protest. He wanted to talk, actually and it was hard enough and his tongue had already turned into a tight useless knot without the trouble of looking for a raging reply. And after all Jane Eyre was his favorite book. 

He fiddled with his mug. Pressed his hands against the ceramic, hard, enough to feel the heat seep through and flood fingertips. 

“I have this idea - of this, this group of people.” 

“A group of people? Care to get a tad more specific?” 

Spencer sensed Carlton’s gaze. He took a long sip of coffee with no further comments. “Sorry. Go on.” 

“Well, I _cannot_ get a lot more specific.” Carlton peeled a hand off the mug and ran it through his hair, suddenly self-conscious, suddenly wanting to look decent enough. “There is, there is just this group of people. And they’re all, mis-matched, and annoying, and screwed up, and morally bizarre, but together they-” 

“They what? Save the world? Conquer it? Discover themselves in a breath-taking four-hundred-pages inner journey?” 

“No.” Lassiter said slowly. “Together, they - they fit in. Really. Together they fit in for the very first time in their lives.” 

He went quiet – taking in a deep breath like he had just run ten miles without a pause. There was a moment of silence, the kitchen clock dropping its bangs, a clipper switching on three yards away. 

When he finally did, Spencer spoke in a low, low voice. “They fit in, don’t they?” 

“Yes.” 

Carlton cast him a glance. Spencer was not smirking, he was smiling, a solid smile that made his eyes look half-filled with ink. 

“I should totally stop having coffees with you Lassie - mess with my head, and my hair is too adorable to deserve such a treatment.” 

Shawn chuckled at his joke, again, standing carefully; he seemed about to add something, but shook his head. 

“If you come to write this thing, send it to me.” 

Carlyon found himself blinking slowly. “ _Well?_ No big finish?” He asked. “No weird and totally uncalled for joke?” 

“No.” Spencer shook his head again, plunging hands in his jeans pockets, smiling a smaller smile fading like a candle. They both realized he wasn’t meeting his gaze and said nothing. 

“Not this time, Lassie.” 

* 

He was just waiting to get back to work. The knee was getting better, he did the physiotherapy exercises, he didn’t wake up anymore in the middle of the night feeling skin burning off his bones and Juliet crying beside him. Last time she visited Vick had smiled a lot more and called him detective. It was a question of weeks. One month at most. “You can relax now, Carlton” she had said. “We don’t want to lose you. We never did. Just keep doing great, eat, exercise, sleep and you’ll be back in no time.” 

And Carlton did it - doing great, eating, exercising. Sleeping, not much, because he had to write. It happened in early morning, often, like a fever, a wild shot and hand still shaking from the recoil. He couldn’t find another way to describe it. He was just waiting to get back to work. He should stop. He didn’t. He didn’t do it for weeks and weeks and in the end on his kitchen table was an envelope of photocopy papers that he tied with adhesive tab and sent to an address written in bold on a gaudy-green business card 

But he was just waiting to get back to work. 

* 

Carlton was coming out of Costco Wholesale with Thursday supplies and spotted Spencer waving at him from under the STOP sign. He felt the urge to groan and throw him the shopping bags and dash back inside to ask political asylum. 

“I. Can’t. Believe. It.” 

“Oh, you should Lassie. And don’t try to pinch yourself, I’m no dream.” 

Then Spencer made a sly smile - a really sly smile with dropping eyelids and shining teeth and flirty eyebrow going up and down. God saves us all. Carlton passed the bags on the other arm and started down the sidewalk without a word. Spencer’s trainers stomped behind him. 

“Lassie? _Lassie?_ ” 

“What is it this time?” Carlton hissed. “I did my part. I did what you asked.” 

“Oh yes.” Spencer agreed. The traffic lights went green, they passed Main Street crossroads with a rush of kindergarten kids, and he skillfully dodged through them without losing Carlton. “I appreciated it greatly. And now I’d like to see the whole thing.” 

“You must have hit that grease-glued head of yours harder than I supposed.” Carlton spat over his shoulder.“That writing thing was therapy. Now it’s over. I’m almost back. I’ve got no more time for you and your Story twaddle.” 

He chuckled as if Carlton had just made the funniest joke of the year. “See? You’re perfect. You’re already talking like an embittered English novelist.” Spencer said. “And that’s why I’m not going to let go.” 

Carlton stopped abruptly in the middle of the road, so abruptly one of the kindergarten kids nearly smacked into his legs. He arranged the corn on the cobs sporting from the second bag and cast Spencer a steady, calm glance meant to bore right through his head. 

“Why are you stalking me, Spencer?” 

“I prefer the term ‘scouting you’.” 

“And do you personally scout every poor bastard coming to your door?” 

“Actually with most of the writers I follow I have to literally kick their ass until the spit out twenty more pages. CEOs kick Gus’ ass because of sales, Gus kicks my ass because of money and I kick their ass because they don’t do their job. It’s the ass-kicking circle.” They were moving again. Mr. Ferguson was sweeping in front of the video store and Carlton gave him a nod. Spencer nodded too, smiling, still talking. “And, I’m here to tell you to write more. You should do it.” 

“I got no time. And that’s not my job Spencer.” Lassiter fumbled with the bags and his coat, looking for his badge, extracting it from the pocket and nearly spilling a pack of oranges on the ground. “I’m a cop, you see? I’m a busy man.” 

“Oh, yes, of course. I see. Terribly busy.” Spencer said fluidly. “But, I’m willing to bet you can find half an hour a day to scribble me something. On proper papers maybe. And printed. And not stained with vanilla coffee if you could bear with me.” 

Carlton snorted through clenched teeth. The Crown Vic was parked behind the park. It was two hundred feet as the crow flies, five minutes on foot. He had finally stopped moving like Igor from _Young Frankenstein,_ still he had been on his feet for the whole morning and he was starting to feel exhausted. Spencer seemed to just have a thing for bursting into existence at the most uncomfortable times possible. Spencer was the last thing he needed. Carlton took on a speed, forced muscles and bones and feet to walk faster. The knee would hurt all night but he didn’t care. 

“You really are _harassing_.” He growled. “May I know why _in the world_ do you care so much? And I haven’t published anything yet. Who should I move for, mh?” 

The answer came right away - and smoothly, like it was the one most obvious thing in history. The answer was the weirdest he could get, the least expected, and stopped him dead in his tracks. 

“For me.” 

Carlton spun on his heels. Very slowly, not fully sure whatto expect. “Sorry?” 

Spencer was standing two feet behind him with his hands plunged in the jacket pockets. “I’ve spent the whole night reading your coffee-stained first twenty pages Lassie. The whole night. I haven’t done it for years, I’ve never done it actually. No story and no novel has ever taken me to the point I just _had_ to go on. And now I’m here like the last fangirl on Earth, craving to know how Jolie will do with her new job, and if Charles is really the jackass he looks like or he’s human after all, and if Bruton will get the cute girl from the post office, and what happened with Steve’s cop dad when he was eighteen. For me, Lassie. You should write that for me.” 

They stared at each other, cautiously, with morning crowd rushing around them, like fencing players calibrate each other’s forces before a match. Except Spencer wasn’t evaluating him. He wasn’t even trying to make him angry. Maybe he _was_ duping him, using all his little editor tricks to nab clueless scribblers - but who honestly knows? And Carlton didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. 

_Ah, Lassiter, you idiot._

Carlton swallowed and held his shopping bags a little harder. 

“I’ll call you.” 

* 

“Ehy.” 

“Ehy. I’ve been reading the last part of the Thing.” 

“And?” 

“The couch scene is wonderful.” O’Hara said, the receiver shifting and cracking as she adjusted it on her shoulder. “The case is gruesome enough. Charles is a moron, but I love him.” 

“He’s not a _moron_. He’s just drained by the ridiculous shenanigans Steve and that terrible sidekick of his come up with.” 

“ _Sure_.” She drawled out. Exactly like with the whole not-sharable cereal boxes question, O’Hara knew when to step back from a battle. “By the way, did you come up with a title? Or we’re going to call it the Thing forever?” 

“Actually- yes. I’ve thought about something. I was thinking about naming it Psych.” 

“Psych? Like the Agency Steve opens in the first chap?” 

“Yes. No.” Carlton licked his lips, hunched his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, that Agency thing brings nothing but trouble. But it’s also the thing that brought them all together. And that’s a story about how life works, and the ninety-percent of times life brings nothing but chaos and trouble and, unexpected twists. So, _Psych_. But maybe it’s stupid. I don’t know.” 

“No. No, it’s not stupid. I like it. I think it’s gonna blow that Spencer guy’s mind.” 

A pause. They kept breathing in the receiver, quietly. Carlton’s gaze wandered and fell on the crisp suit hanging from the closet door, dark blue, fresh from dry-cleaner, the red tie wrapped around the shirt collar. The shoulder holster, the spot two inches down one inch on the left still churned from fire and melted concrete. 

“So, tomorrow you’re coming back?” 

“Yes.” 

“Scared?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s going to be fine, Carlton.” Juliet said. “And I’ll be there. I’m your Right Hand. I’m your hoplite holding the shield. Don’t ever forget it.” 

Carlton turned towards the living room window, the one that was way too large and way too exposing and still in the right nights filled with all Santa Barbara’s lights like a cup of stars. He had to wait three heartbeats before his voice felt steady enough to answer. 

“I won’t forget it.” 

“Goodnight, partner.” 

“Goodnight, O’Hara.” 

* 

“Okay Lassie, let me take it off my chest. Your coffee is outrageously good. A blessing in liquid form. A Gods’ gift to mankind. It could very well be the best coffee I’ve had in all my long life as a perverted and lustful lord of the darkness.” 

“Ngh.” 

Spencer grimaced, shirt rustling and cracking as he slumped further down the chair. “Uh-oh. Fear you got your sarcasm-revelator broken, pal. You should fix it ASAP.” He gave a sigh. “What’s wrong with the Story?” 

Lassiter looked up from his nearly untouched cup of less than average coffee. Morning sun still drenched in rain poured through the windows, casting warm sunspots across the table. He had come back to work a month before and all went well. O’Hara was indeed there, and his desk too, and McNab bringing around bad coffee and bumping into him with his awkwardly moose-like limbs and the piercing smell of stationery and sweat drenching the very walls of the PD. Carlton had started to feel was the most homey feeling in the universe. All was fine. It was Sunday morning, he had made a dash to get a junkie across the port streets not two nights before and still his knee wasn’t even pulsing. He had not a reason in the world to be cranky. 

He was. Desperately. 

Carlton cocked his head, one eyebrow arching. “How do you know, Spencer?” 

“It could not look like it, but I’ve been in the field for some time now. I’ve seen that peculiar shade of resentful discontent on frustrated writers’ faces alone.” 

“Like mine?” 

“No. Not quite. Never like yours, Lassie.” Spencer said. The words lingered between them, a heartbeat too long. Faded before Carlton could properly pocket it. “So, what’s up?” 

“I suppose telling you to mind your own business would be completely pointless?” 

“Completely.” Shawn shot him a grin, Lassiter rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee. At some point it had become a ritual of them. At some point it had become easy. 

He leant back on the chair, clearing his throat. Loosened the shirt collar and breathed better. He needed space. Fresh air. Spencer always spilled California sun like a cracked jar. 

“I, don’t know. I’m stuck. Everyone is in position. I have the case’s solution. But, it’s not enough. I need something else - some, something _something-ish_.” 

“What?” 

“Well, if I knew I wouldn’t ask you in such a botched way” Carlton snapped. He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated, tousling them and not giving a damn. “God I hate confusing things. Messy stuff. Blurred lines. I hate them.” 

“Totally went for the perfect job then, Lassie. However, I think I know what your boys need.” Spencer was leaning practically across the whole table. The coffee cup discharged on the side. “A plot twist.” 

“But - they’re all in position. They work well. They’re in _balance_.” Carlton said with force. As if that word alone was enough to cut off objections, the sacred word, unfathomable to humble humans. 

Not sacred to everyone, apparently. Not to Shawn Spencer. That smiled his sleek white smile and rested his chin on one hand and narrowed his eyes like a stretching cat. “Exactly. Balance is boring, Lass, both in this world and in theirs. Shake things a bit. Spin the wheel. Throw a rock in a pond and see what happens.” 

“Change is bad. Rocks break things. I don’t like it.” 

“Not always. Life is plot twists Lassie-dear. And they could still be happy in the end. Even with a plot twist. You have my word on this.” 

Finding out he believed Spencer was unsettling. Finding out he had inched closer and his eyes were quiet and serious and he was not joking was. Behind unsettling. Things slid down on another plane, imperceptibly. Carlton felt the adjustment in his stomach. Took a sip of coffee. Fought for a thought, any thought, _any thought dammit_. He didn’t find it. 

“What then?” He breathed out. Softly. “A murder? An accident? A thunderstorm spreading havoc over the whole damn town?” 

Spencer’s smile grew wider. Lassiter had time to see laughter lines surface around his lips. “Or a kiss.” 

Spencer’s kiss felt exactly like him - fast and demanding and impatient to the point of desperate. It wasn’t a peck. At all. It was a clear, skilled kiss with clear, skilled intentions. Lassiter’s mug spilled all its coffee on the tablecloth. His heart skipped three beats. The planes were all wrong. When Spencer’s hand cradled his neck, he leant in it with clockwork ease. _Ah, this, this is the plot twist_ , he thought, _ah, I see it, now I see it._ It was teeth and warmth.The kiss ended and Lassiter wasn’t breathing. 

“Carlton.” Spencer spelled his name, lips moving against his. Letting it roll off his tongue, carefully. “Carlton. Don’t take me wrong. Lassie is an evergreen, it fits you perfect. But not now. Now you’re definitively a Carlton.” 

Carlton. Carlton, the awkward thing pressed under him, lips parted, eyes fried by sleep, barely recalling what a kiss actually is, watching him watching him. He let Spencer’s hand slip down his neck and cup his cheek. He smelled of lime, conditioner and multi-fruit bubble gum. Of California sun, spilling through the cracks. 

“I don’t always look like this, Spencer.” Carlton said slowly. 

“I never said it’s a bad thing.” 


End file.
